


Stay with me

by wordfrenzy (orphan_account)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Superhusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2565305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wordfrenzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And he stays again. They don't speak, don't even look at each other, but Tony takes a seat beside him, their legs touching ever so slightly. In such a empty tower, the shallow breathing sounds so noisy, and it's Tony's frantic heartbeat that makes him pause—it's not a sudden clarity of emotional realisation, but it makes him pause nonetheless.</i>
</p><p>All it takes is a drunk confession for Tony to realise he and Steve have one thing in common. </p><p>And to realise he's the one who can help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay with me

**Author's Note:**

> Right. I wanted to write a Steve/Tony fic, so I did. It turned out a little more angsty than I planned as it went along, but oh well. Originally, this was shorter, but after betaing — whom I thank [halfmoonsevenstars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars), you're brilliant — it underwent a total revamp, particularly some of the characterisations. So, that might be why some scenes might be better than others?
> 
> Unfortunately, after the redrafting, my beta couldn't edit it, so the mistakes are on me. ♡
> 
> ~

'Are you drunk?'

'No,' is Steve's slurred answer. 'Of course not—I can't, 'member?'

There is an unmistakable stench of alcohol on Steve's breath, stale in the air, and Tony knows it's a special formula from Asgard, enough that it's almost impossible for the serum to burn it off before Steve can feel the effects.

Steve is still looking at him, slightly swaying on his feet. He doesn’t even look that drunk; a haze in his eyes and flush to his cheeks the only indication. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and his pants are slung so low on his hips that they’re barely staying up, which Tony tries not to notice—he can’t, not really—but he tries. He considers helping him sober up, but that would be a tremendously stupid idea.

He settles for encouragement. ‘You realise your room is upstairs, right?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says; he blinks slowly. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Which is what?’

For a second, it looks like Steve is about to pass out, from the way he rubs a hand over his face and takes a sudden step back. He doesn't; he does worse. He slumps back onto the couch, and the hard, pensive expression he usually wears melts away. It doesn't break down at a steady pace, but all at once like the shattering glass of a mirror.

It's his hands—they're long and still, controlled, never breaking that control even when he's splitting open aliens skulls or a pencil swiftly moving over paper. They're shaking, actually shaking. It's so unlike him, to willingly expose how he's not the hero now. Tony sees what's beneath the alcohol, from the dark circles under Steve's eyes and the way he's chewed through his lip, chapped and coated with dried blood. Steve looks down at his hands, clenches and fists them once, and Tony wonders what he sees.

Maybe it's something Tony isn't ready to find out.

'So,' he says when Steve doesn't answer. 'Why are you drinking?'

When he finally does reply—god, it drops a heavy weight on Tony's chest, as if the arc reactor is back, cut into his skin, jammed between his ribcage and burning his insides, because it's so raw and split open, something Steve must only do behind closed doors.

It echoes against his skull, over and over, and it's so true.

'For the same reason you did.'

 

~

 

The incident is forgotten by the next day as Steve works on a plan to infiltrate a secret HYDRA base with Wilson, and the scene looks just like the photos and static, grey files Tony had found stored in a boxes, except this time there's hologram maps and advanced tablets that he can almost operate better than Tony. It's like there is no trace of his real history left. He speaks in clipped half-sentences, using a commanding tone, but even with the uniform and shield, there is an underline of uncertainty, just not bone-deep yet.

It's the first time Tony has seen it.

Sure, he's seen punching bags be torn from their chains, in anger and frustration, but not this, not a deep pain that Steve tries to hide through attention to his work. He's an open person, unable to guard his emotions like Tony; if he does, the effects will be lasting. In a way, Tony finds himself glad of that. It's too hard for Steve to block what he's feeling, of that Tony is sure.

And when Steve returns eighteen hours later, his uniform ripped and skin bloodied, his expression full of of contempt and yet with a hint of sadness—a failed search, then—Tony feels his chest clench once. There is a brief moment where Steve glances at him, a quick, fleeting glimpse, where everything Tony had wondered is confirmed; it's all exposed in a pair of eyes, hurting and eating away at the man. Tony had thought that maybe the drinking was for fun, to forget a bad mission, but it's not. It's to numb that constant ache that weighs you down, heavier with each step, and it only worsens when the feeling returns.

Steve leaves for a shower, and it lasts for two straight hours.

 

~

 

Tony decides to check on him on the fourth night.

He knocks once, twice, and once more before he opens the door. In all the times Tony has walked into terrifying things, this tops it all. It isn't gory or a horror scene, but shattering all the same. Steve is on the floor, leaning against the bathtub and—

Steve is staring, just staring into the distance. His look isn't completely blank but it isn't exactly full of life. There is only one movement, and that is his hands again, flinching and shaky. He makes no acknowledgment of Tony's presence, no sound or anything, but the room has never felt so loud. Blood pounds in Tony's ears and sweat breaks out across his back. In his more selfish world, he would have turned around and walked straight out that door, and would never come back, but the worry is crawling under his skin and he can't leave. Not now.

'How long have you been sitting here?' He risks kneeling down. 'C'mon, talk to me.'

Patience isn't his strong suit, but Tony waits for ten minutes until Steve shudders and finally looks at him. 'I don't know. A long time, I guess.'

'Long enough,' Tony says. 'Let's go.'

'Where?'

'Anywhere there's coffee.'

Tony offers a hand, and it's another minute before Steve takes it and helps him up. They're halfway towards the kitchen when Steve says, 'I'm not usually like that.' He sighs and shoves a hand through his hair. 'Not in front of company, anyway.'

It's good to see a change that quickly—no empty void or pain, but now it's replaced by exhaustion. Under his eyes are dark bags, almost like bruises, and there's no colour in his cheeks or skin at all; they're pallid and ill-looking. He wonders if Steve was in the bathroom to vomit, but decides against asking, decides against asking anything.

'Hey,' Tony says. 'It's not my business. Whatever happens in your time, happens.'

'Oh,' he says around a swallow. 'Okay.'

Tony backtracks, but lets out a harsh sigh; even after years of being with Pepper and realising he was a complete jackass in the past, he's still crap at conveying his own thoughts and emotions. 'What I meant was: sure, it's not my business, but if you wanna talk to someone about it, I'm all ears, 'cause I understand what you're going through, y'know. So. Yeah.'

No reply comes, and he wouldn't have minded if it isn't so silent, suffocating and thick—there's hardly any noise, only his own shallow breathing, but nothing from Steve. Turning, Tony is faced with what feels like another punch to his stomach; Steve keeps his gaze trained on his lap, but when he lifts his head, his eyes are rimmed red. No tears or dry gasps. Just a possibility—one that Tony has seen too many times when he looks in a mirror or window.

What he wants to do is leave him alone as it's probably best to let Steve gather himself, but his feet stay planted to the ground. He instead smiles, and it's shaky and not at all reliable, but Steve mirrors it with one of his own, and they're just two confused guys, with frayed smiles on their mouths. But they stay in the darkness, because it's as if anywhere will break the moment of actually being on the same level for once.

Tony doesn't leave and Steve doesn't ask him to. They stay there until the sun rises.

 

~

 

'Been up all night?' a voice asks, muffled and amused. 'That's unlike you.'

Tony lifts his head—pounding and groggy, a sensation he's usually used to, but maybe it's more noticeable from a coffee overload or none, he can't remember—and squints against the sunlight. There are creases in his cheek and a dry taste in his mouth as he swallows around it. 'I have a good reason,' he says halfheartedly. 'Which I will gladly tell you once my retinas reattach to my eyes.'

'Well,' Romanoff says, and nurses a cup of what Tony craves. 'Steve doesn't look half as bad as you, but seeing as I just walked in on him with his shirt on backwards, I'd guess you share the same reason.'

'In that case, I won't be telling you what that reason.'

'I know.'

'Then why ask?'

He drags himself from the chair, stumbles over to the coffee pot and downs it in two gulps, despite it scalding his throat. Romanoff is watching him and he tries not to show his discomfort. They have an odd relationship, if it's anything close to call it that; probably not, seeing as upon first meeting her she'd been someone else and he'd been lied to, one of his many hates. It's easier to work as a team, fighting against enemies, but a casual conversation is something he needs to master. As is trusting her.

In a less uncertain scene, he'd have already vacated to his shop. Maybe he doesn't because he's afraid she could get him in a thigh choke-hold in three seconds flat, or maybe this is a way of confirming what he's felt for the past few days—if someone else can see it, even though whom is a spy expert, maybe what he feels is true.

Romanoff slips off the counter. 'To see if you know what you're trying to do.'

'Bit vague. You're gonna have to expand on that point.' He pinches the bridge of his nose. 'Riddles aren't my forte.'

'With Steve,' she says. 'We're on the same page, Stark.'

He pours another cup, frowning. 'Now there's a page?'

'There's two—'

'So, my life, it's an open book?'

'More than you think,' she says, smirking. 'There's our page, and the page you'll be on with Steve.'

You'll. Not want to be or have the slightest chance of being, but you'll. Had she said either of the others, he might've believed it; he does want to be on the same page as Steve, understand him better so they can actually have a conversation longer than five minutes. He's all for silence, the precious quiet a nice change from the chaos in his mind, but if anything more could come from what he doesn't know if he can call a friendship yet, then a proper talk is the first step.

Putting his cup in the sink, he leans against the counter. His heart has picked up the pace that's not from the sudden coffee rush or anything remotely related to caffeine. He takes in a deep breath and manages to choke out a string of words, 'I know you're a world class agent, who could make me pee my pants with a look, but—'

'How am I so sure you will?' She shrugs. 'I'm not. I'm sure that you and Steve are sure that you will.'

'You know that makes no sense, right?'

She starts to leave. 'You're both sure it'll happen, at some point. It's there. Maybe you haven't fully realised it yet.'

In all honesty, it's still not making sense, but Tony only nods and watches her go. He does know—he's realised it. He likes Steve; it's a crush, and he likes him. There is nothing more to realise. The only good thing he can take from this discussion is thinking differently of Romanoff, that she isn't as distrusting as he thought she was, friendly even, and he'd genuinely welcome talking with her again.

'Oh,' she calls over her shoulder. 'And you might want to tell Clint to get out the vents.'

'Dammit, Nat!'

 

~

 

There is a stabbing sensation in Tony's chest.

Blood. Everywhere. It seeps through his clothes, onto his hands as he tries to wipe it away. He can't. He can't. He—

Tony wakes with a gasp, and he instantly feels for his heartbeat; it's frantic, but steady; a rhythmic hum that ripples along his palm and calms his senses. It's hard to breathe, with each attempt at dragging in air burning his throat and feeling heavy in his lungs. Maybe if he'd taken a sleeping pill or stayed awake for longer, the nightmare wouldn't have happened. But nightmares are things you can't run away from.

With blurry eyes and a pounding headache, he sits up against the wall. The sheets are tangled around his legs, sweat sticking the silk to his skin. He spends many nights debating whether or not to try and get back to sleep or to work himself into the late morning down in the shop. It's usually the latter, but he can't this time, because without warning a shout vibrates through his ceiling. It's undeniably Steve—it's booming, and despite being a floor above him, it's clear as day.

Natasha is already in Steve's room when he enters, sitting on the edge of the bed. 'It happens often.'

Of course she'd know what he was thinking, so he simply says, 'And you check on him?'

'Sometimes. But a change of face might be in order. I won't always be here. He knows that. New identity means new responsibility. Neither of us are ready. We need to figure some things out.' She looks at Tony. 'This is your chance if you're willing to take it.'

'Chance at what?'

'What you've wanted for weeks now. Why else would you come and see him?'

She briefly lays her hand on Steve's arm before leaving. There is only the rush of blood in his skull and the rasp of his breathing as he approaches the bed. It's worse than when he had the arc reactor, sudden stabs of pain in his chest unlike the continuous, dull ache that used to riddle his day.

Laid out on top of the covers is Steve—he's frozen, the fabric of sheets torn under his white-knuckled fists, and sweat is dotted over his skin. He's in his own world, judging by the way he doesn't look over, or if he does notice, he just chooses not to show it. Steve had been built as a super soldier, but he's never looked so vulnerable before now, and Tony's unsure how to process that image. He'd done okay in the kitchen, but that was because Steve managed to snap from the choking moment; it's possessed Steve further now, and the last thing Tony wants is suffocate him more.

He clears the thickness in his throat. 'Lights to ten percent.'

The room brightens by a mellow amount, enough to see the extent of Steve's condition. He's no different, only lit up and now with more reason to go over to him. Tony takes cautious steps, hoping Steve will notice sometime and say something; he doesn't.

'Hey, Steve,' he says. 'Could you look at me?'

When he doesn't answer, Tony reaches out and brushes his fingers over Steve's arm. It's a big mistake. A hand wraps around Tony's wrist and pulls him forward until he's in Steve's personal space, and feeling as if his shoulder is being ripped out of his socket. Tony manages to catch himself with his other hand, but he holds his breath.

Steve blinks once, then: 'Tony?'

'Yeah. Mind letting go there?'

'I—' He realises and snatches his hand back. 'Sorry. I'm sorry.'

'Don't sweat it.' Rolling his shoulder, Tony settles down on the edge of the bed. 'Easy mistake—besides, I think you helped with the kink that's been there for days. Really, it's fine, don't think even the big guy could have wrung it out.'

Steve is not in the mood, apparently, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard with a sigh. His hands tremble, and he keeps blinking for the reason Tony knows; there are still images, behind his eyelids, on the walls and everywhere he looks, so he thinks if he rubs them raw or blinks until they water, they'll disappear. They won't.

Sighing again, Steve says, 'You don't have to sit with me, Tony. I'm fine.'

'Do you want me to stay?'

'Well. It's just. You look—'

'If this is about how shitty I look, don't worry about it. I know I do.'

Steve shakes his head, swallowing. 'It's not that they're there. It's why.'

Without thinking, Tony lets it all out; it's built up over these past nights. His throat his thick and feels like it's closing up, constricting. 'We can play this game if you want. I know how it works. I played long enough to know that if you say I'm fine enough times you'll convince the people around you. But I know how it goes—it's not them you're trying to convince. It's yourself.' He looks down. 'Difference is I drowned in it. Still do sometimes, but you're still doing something about it; you're swimming to the surface.'

Tony expects the futile try at a meaningful metaphor to be thrown back in his face, he wouldn't blame Steve if he does. Instead, he visibly swallows and stares at Tony, studying him. The room feels more suffocating than before, hot and prickling along his skin, and Tony has to suppress the shudder that tries to whip up his spine. It's hard, it's so damn hard not to lean in further, sit closer to Steve in a better attempt to comfort him, but part of him thinks he'll screw it up and what they have so far; or, his main worry, is that it'll confirm what he's been feeling these last few days. He doesn't know if he's ready for it.

'I have to,' Steve says after a deep breath. 'I can't sit around. That's nothing against you, just—it's who I am.'

'I know,' he says. 'I know.'

They don't say anything more, and Tony leaves when he's asleep, because despite this moment, he doesn't feel like they're at the stage for him to stage.

 

~

 

It's five in the evening when Tony gets a call from Wilson, covered in grease and sweat from an all-nighter, strangely buzzed rather than tired. An electric sensation that runs through his veins, and makes him feel dizzy yet alive.

He flips his phone up. 'If this is to assemble the avengers, you know the call we settled—'

'Cap's on his tail. It's Barnes, we found him, but Cap's gone and chased after him,' comes a raspy, choked reply. 'He's got a tracker on. You can find him. Find him and catch him before he does anything stupid. You're the only other person who can follow him from above; hurry your ass up, Stark, or things are gonna get ugly pretty fast.'

In a matter of seconds he's up on his feet and calling the suit, phone still held to his ear and confusion flittering over his mind; blood pumps around his skull, too, the heavy breathing of Wilson only adding to his frenzied state. There is no time to wonder why he's doing this without hesitation, without the awareness of what Steve's lifelong friend is capable of. He's going into immense danger, but then again, compared to everything else he's thrown himself into, this can't be all that bad.

'Break one of your wings again?'

Maybe it's out of a need to stem the fear creeping up his spine; fear and adrenaline, that's all whizzing around in his system.

Wilson snorts. 'Yeah. No real damage, to me, either. Just a few scrapes. But, he's—jesus, he's unstable.'

'I guess as much,' Tony says, the armour clicking around his arms, legs and torso. 'Reasonable distance. No sudden approaching. Got it.'

'No approaching at all.' Wilson sucks in a gasp, followed by what sounds like his wings shuddering. 'Trust me, Stark. Barnes—he doesn't wanna be found, not even by Steve. He needs to do it himself, in his own time. He's stuck between a machine and a man. He panics, so don't go near him, not unless you want to get hurt.'

Tony swallows. 'Thanks for the heads up.'

It takes him three minutes to find Steve using the tracking device in his suit, sprinting across the roof of several buildings after Barnes, equally strong in speed and skill, and even from metres above, Tony can tell how impressive his metal arm is. It's likely that Steve has a comm, and asking JARVIS to connect them together, he doesn't expect much corporation.

Steve—years of being deprived from a life—finally finds someone who connects him to it, and Tony knows he'll do anything to get it back, even if it means breaking the rules or refusing to listen to others or getting shot three times whilst on a burning helicarrier. Tony doesn't want to stop him, not really, because he can see; he can see how much he wants it, from the way he scours the buildings with unnatural speed and a frown of determination that looks as if it might split his face in two.

He can see it, so clearly now. He's only heard stories or Steve talk about Barnes in fleeting conversation, before when he'd be assumed dead. Now, for it to be revealed that Barnes is not only alive, but was part of an organisation that stripped him bare of everything he was, besides the ability to kill and skill set, well, Tony can't understand what it must feel like. He can imagine. What he imagines is incredibly ugly and horrid, something he wouldn't wish upon Steve; not now, not when he sees where some of his nightmares and pain comes from, how this is the root and all the webbing of branches and thorns kept on growing.

'You gotta let him go, Cap,' he says, and Steve hears from the way he looks up for a second. 'Today isn't the day.'

It doesn't matter if he's listening or not, because Barnes has stopped and so has Steve, in some sort of stand off, except Steve is slightly unsteady on his feet and panting so hard it blares in Tony's ear. He's too high to see their expressions or any details, but he can hear every word.

'It's okay, Buck. I'm here to help you.'

Barnes takes a step back. 'I don't need it. I don't want it.'

Maybe it's out of pure stubbornness or the ridiculous amount of faith Steve has that makes him step forward. It's the wrong thing to do, as in one swift movement, Barnes jumps off the roof and disappears.

 

~

 

'If you're concerned about what he's capable of, chances are he won't do anything—before, he was following orders. Forced into those things,' Natasha says. 'He may panic and react when confronted, but he won't attack. James could've killed you back there, but he didn't. He chose to run. That's something, Steve.'

'It's the damage he could do to himself that concerns me.'

Wilson steps forward and claps a hand on Steve's shoulder. 'What about you? Even Captain America needs a break.'

It's bad, terrible even, for Tony to be on the other side of the door, not moving away from what feels too intimate, invading one's privacy, for comfort. He can hear the heavy sigh Steve lets out, see him lean forward and scrub a hand over his forehead through the crack, but he still doesn't move. Maybe it's his subconscious — has to be, or else he'd have left a long time ago to lock himself away.

Another sigh, and Wilson gives him one last pat before dropping his arm. 'Hang up the shield for a while, man. Give Bucky a chance to breathe. He's not in the right place yet.'

'I know, just—'

'It's hard. It is. But you're gonna drive yourself into the ground if you're not careful.'

Romanoff nods, arms crossed and lips tight. 'A week or two. Month tops. He'll look for you, but first he needs to find out who he is on his own.' She looks down, as if reminded by something; Tony has a feeling it's personal. 'It's the control he'd been deprived of for years.'

Finally, Steve nods, enough for Romanoff and Wilson to part ways. He leans back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, and the tension doesn't go, the tight ball of stress is still there, in his shoulders and the way he clenches his hands into fists. Tony can't name what he feels in his chest; it could be guilt, or sympathy, but if anything, he's not sure that he wants it to stop. It's unfamiliar and although unpleasant, it makes him feel, the first real emotion after Pepper and the years of numbing it with alcohol.

It's what fuels him to walk in the room, abandoning all reason to run off and isolate himself in the freedom of his shop, and says, 'They're right, you know. Your friend, Bucky, he'll come round.'

Steve looks at him, then gives him a brief nod. 'I just thought I'm failing him.'

'Why?'

'When he fell, I didn't jump after him. When I fell, he did.' He shrugs, a sad smile on his lips. 'And he didn't even know me.'

He does that a lot, smiles when he's sad. Tony's seen it too many times to keep track, and frankly, it's worse than crying or showing the distress in a negative way because he's trying so hard to keep a brave face on, pushing himself too much to find the goal that isn't in his reach yet. He knows why Steve is doing it, to make sure Bucky is safe, but some things must be left alone.

Tony swallows. 'He did. What happened—his programming was breaking down because he knew you. Sure, he's running, but it's not away from you, it's towards something; he's looking for Bucky. He knows you.'

'I believe Sam and Nat. I believe you.'

'So, what're you going to do?'

Steve sighs. 'I can't promise I won't look for him again, but I'll wait. I'll wait.'

And he stays again. They don't speak, don't even look at each other, but Tony takes a seat beside him, their legs touching ever so slightly. In such a empty tower, the shallow breathing sounds so noisy, and it's Tony's frantic heartbeat that makes him pause—it's not a sudden clarity of emotional realisation, but it makes him pause nonetheless.

The page, the one Romanoff mentioned and seemed so satisfied with herself because of it, is so much more. The page isn't a crush, it's that; the thing he's afraid to put a label on because it's the label. It's not new, not unfamiliar at all, and it hadn't manifested in a matter of weeks. It had hidden itself in that time frame, but taken years to appear and mere moments to realise. He may be afraid of the label itself, but he's not afraid of what it means to feel.

 

~

 

The next Thursday is good. It's great.

Steve comes in from a mission—in clothing he uses for uncover work and shield in hand—and hair slightly windswept from where he must've been on his bike; he hasn't ridden it for weeks. He's talking in a hushed voice with Wilson, laughing and in such a good mood Tony has to tighten his lips to hide his own. It's a mood he doesn't want to break, so he doesn't, he keeps his mouth shut.

'When you boys finally join us,' Natasha says, 'would you mind bringing over the popcorn? It's next to your catalogue, Steve; I've circled some walking frames you might like.'

He rolls his eyes. 'Hilarious, but overused.'

'Would you prefer dad jokes?'

'No.'

They're all on the couch for this week's rom-com. Only You was the Avenger's pick just because the main guy looks like Tony, which he absolutely does not. Wilson takes a seat on the arm next to Romanoff and Steve takes one on the floor by Tony's feet. He leans against Tony's leg, and he doesn't know whether it's accidental or on purpose; either way, Tony doesn't speak in case of ruining what feels like a dream come true.

But it's the smile Steve wears that Tony finds he loves—it doesn't have the usual frayed edges or hard eyes, and Tony realises he'd do anything to see that smile as much as possible. And when Steve holds onto Tony's ankle, a line he didn't think they'd cross, he doesn't bother to hide his own this time.

 

~

 

A month later, Steve came into Tony's shop, sat down on a chair, and sketched for hours. Days after that, it's been a sort of tradition. He sits with his soldering iron, finding it a challenge to focus with the way Steve looks—a frown of concentration, biting his lip, but most of all, how bright his eyes are; the first in a while.

'Being the dashing man I am, I understand why you'd want to draw—'

'Who said I was drawing you?'

He returns the smirk that Steve wears. 'C'mon. Look at me.'

Setting down his pencil, he spins his book around to show the masterpiece he's been working on for weeks, and—

It's Dum–E. A great sketch, brilliant, with the lines hard and shading soft; what's more is that when Steve was actually drawing it, his hands had been steady and fluent over the page. He's lost in his art, in the creations he makes, like Tony is with his love of science. Out of the many firsts Tony has seen, the smiles or laughter, this is the best of all. It's taken a while to get here, but Tony knows one thing: now that it's happened, it's probably the happiest he's felt in months.

And maybe it's because that bounces back off Tony or it's his own sort of happiness, but he jumps up from his chair, slipping the iron back into his holder. He crosses the room in two strides, and leans down until he's looking at Steve dead-on; he's not in his personal space or even implying that he desperately wants to kiss him, but he looks in him eye, waiting for him to make the final decision.

He does, and it's the one Tony hoped for.

Steve throws his sketchbook to the side, claps Tony's face between his hands, and kisses him. Tony expects it to be controlled, harsh, and bruising, but it's the complete opposite. It's slow and exploring, heat spilling over his cheek by how intimate and unlike him it feels, and Steve's hands smudge lead marks over Tony's skin as they pull him closer. He's halfway to climbing onto Steve's lap when something flickers in Tony's mind and he yanks away. It's tempting to close the gap again, but he takes a step back.

'That, that was great. Really good. And as much as I would love to do it again, among other things, because seriously if I don't at least once in my lifetime, then I'll regret—'

'Tony.'

'Okay, okay. I thought dinner would be in order first.'

'Like a date?'

'Yeah,' he says slowly. 'Unless you prefer lunch. Or brunch. Or even breakfast because I make a mean pancake stack despite my incapability to work anything but a coffee machine and—'

Steve cuts him off with another kiss—a brief peck, really—before pulling away to nod. 'Anything is good enough.'

 

~

 

They'd agreed to breakfast, walking down the streets of New York with bagels and coffee in hand, and by the end of it they've spoken about the little things like when Steve started drawing or why Tony finds solace in creating, but the highlight is later when they're in the elevator; they've both been called out for missions, and are on the way to their rooms to change, and Steve holds his chin and turns his face towards him, pressing the lightest kiss to Tony's lips.

He leaves without a second glance when the doors open, and it's okay; Tony can see that the water Steve is submerged in—the water they're both submerged in, is only up to their waists now.

And he's confident they'll soon be on dry ground.


End file.
